Patriotic
by Chiiharu
Summary: Long live liberty. Long live the Patriots. Christmas Gift fic for dargit.


**A/N: **Merry Christmas, James!

This is my gift to him, just for being awesome and stuffs and-man it's been a long time since I wrote for this fandom. XD;; So you know, if anybody from here happens to have me on that shiny Author's Alert and you're wondering why this isn't anything pertaining to what I usually write... That's because this a story in regards to James' story "Null Tongues" which you all should go read cause, like, it's a Final Fantasy VIII and Kingdom Hearts crossover and it's dark and that's what I like. XD;;

So tada! I hope you love me lots! Loves and kisses! Mwaah~

I wanted this to take place you know. Like... When Simon's all the leader of the Patriots. Hopefully that works. XD;;

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><p><strong><span>-: Patriotic :-<span>**

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><p>Understanding war is hard.<p>

And, heh, you just don't quite understand it until you've been there. Forget all of the stupid shit you've might have done in the past—that stuff doesn't even matter anymore. Because when I'm standing on the soil of Endsville, I forget everything I've done and everything I want to remember. The only way you can understand an ounce of war is if you've been in it. Sure, we used to watch video reenactments in school—bullshit school that we never even needed, thanks to that witch bitch Edea—but it's not the same. It'll never be the same. You won't have a clue what war is until you've seen a bullet fly past your face. One shot by your own best friend. One that you loved, even. With all of your heart. You won't know what war is until you've smelled the soot on your hands and the scent of gunpowder and death all around you.

Oh, and HF.

Edea loves her random tubs of hydrofluoric acid.

You won't know what war is until you've felt the mind-numbing pain of losing someone you care about. Several people, mind you. And people tell me why I still smoke one up everyday. That's not to screw my health over. It's to make me forget and man up. Chel, he... Used to smoke everyday. We'd smoke together, that guy and I. And he always seemed so cool and nonchalant when he did it. I bet he still gets urges to do that even has we speak. Bet'cha that make-up caked witch isn't letting him touch a single square. He deserves it, I'm sure. But that's why I'll never kick the habit. Until you've felt the cool breeze that makes everything seem so right when it's all wrong... Fucked sideways then upside down and then underneath on top of itself... You don't know what war is.

How I could spend hours each night praying to God that Sydney and the others are safe. I'm not even super religious like that. I just hear what other people say. They say that getting down on your knees and clapping your hands together and shutting your eyes closed and murmuring a bunch of crap'll make your day that much brighter. I have to admit. It's worked sometimes when knives barely miss my kidneys. Other times... Well, I could have done without it. But that's what war does to it. It twists up your beliefs. Really, honestly, truly, you've got to forget everything you've ever known when you're out there fighting for what you believe in. Because people'll start to conform and change that shit around. People like... People like...

It's hard, standing here with dozens of kids behind me—kids who probably still have family members alive, but I know that they've been controlled just like mine have. Put underneath Edea's tyranny. That makes me feel a little bit better knowing that I'm probably running them into their graves. But they're _motivated._ War likes motivated people, right? Who am I to argue with the premisses of war? I don't agree with it, but what choice do I have? It's a game. It's all just a game. Our fire against their petty, small flame. War like this will always be needed as long as Edea is around. With leaders like me, who 'supposedly know what's best'. All I can do is pray (hey, there's that weird thing again) and hope that one day we'll all wake up and see that the the D.C.U. are gone for good.

The freaky part about Endsville, though, is that people don't react to war like they should. There aren't mothers running the street looking for their Patriot-made son or daughter. They just don't care. They figure the D.C.U. will deal with them. Turn them straight. Brainwash them all. I clutch my fists just thinking about it. It drives me nuts that these people don't care what's happening to our world! If the people don't care, how can they expect a world where everyone can be happy? Fuck this shit, we aren't happy! None of us are! Living under all of this... It's extremely stressful. Just then I'm knocked out of my thoughts and next thing I know, I hear the sound of a lifeless sack of meat smack backwards into the ground. The impact was so hard that it shook the ground underneath my feet for a second—maybe more. I couldn't tell.

I really was hoping it wouldn't come to this.

The earth shivers, quakes, and then there's nothing but deafening silence. That was one of my guys they just shot down and my brown eyes just evaluate the enemy lines. We're probably all very even right now. That isn't at all a good thing though. Matched numbers doesn't mean a damn thing when they've got the pretty, shiny weapons and we've left standing here with a couple of matches and hopes... Hopes and dreams...! Do you know how difficult it is to stand here and hope that today your fire magic decides to work? Because if it doesn't... You'll just end up like poor Mattie behind me. Saturating in her own red blood. When I glance behind me and look at her for one quick second, I don't see a dead body. I see a Patriot. Someone who died for the cause, and died with a smile on her face. And the others notice it too. After a scene like that, you'd expect people to start freaking out.

They don't. Nobody's heart beats faster. You can't hear anything. No breath, no howling, no taunts. They're waiting for us to do something. We'll make them wait. Torrents of tears run down the guy on the right of me's face. I might just be hallucinating now-or maybe it's my Patriot pride acting up, but I swear those tears are sizzling hot on his face. I can smell and see the sulfur steam rising up in the air, acting as a sort of comfort. Great. He'll need it. I'm thinking about giving that guy a word or two to reassure him that everything's going to be okay; that the D.C.U., strangely this time, will wait for us to make the first move, but a noise skewers through the silence that we had like long fingernails on a chalkboard. The surreal, dark screech pierced acid steam and wrapped its knifed-edge, steal grip all the way around to those other guys.

He was angry.

Angry that they could just kill someone like that. I understood where he was coming from, but he didn't have to address what they had done. Because those bastards will only—

Now they're laughing. Laughing maliciously, systematically. Like robots. Like they're programmed to laugh and taunt us whenever they off one of us. That's when my men start panicking, squirming and whatnot, looking at each other—twisting and searching for answers. The reality of Mattie being dead behind us really kicks in and they're breathless and limped, looking at his body with horror, terror etched onto their faces. But they grab at their pinched, parched dry throats and wheel around at the sound of another gutshot—listening to the awful cackles spat out like phlegm. And all stirred, like leaves on a warm, fall day.

Well, the sky is flaming red tonight, so I'm not going to wait much longer to give them the command. We have gone through both old and hard times, and we won't stop here and die only to make it this far. If I'm going to be taken out for the count, it'll be by someone big—like Edea. We're tired, weak, and I know my men are craving salvation that they know they can't have, but that's why we have to fight. So we will march on and fight with our pride, and if we die, so be it. I'll die knowing it was worth it, just like Mattie did. Our hopes are set into the sky, pink and blue like bright colors of cotton candy, and the wind rushes past it, for it holds no fear and longs to know the atrocities that are about to be committed here tonight.

I don't regret a thing.

The first stars of the night begin to blink into focus and we gear up. Gasoline, lighters, matches, the works.

And they wait for my call.

We've fought many battles before, overcoming forces even greater than our forever-dwindling numbers. The fears of my guys are dispelled by the hunger for blood and the need to kill. They know how much we need this right now. Fewer of them means another day for us to live. Another day for me to see my friends again. And my sister. Dear God, my sister... It's crazy. I've got my stuff out too, and yet I'm the only one here standing scared when everyone else around me has on their grit faces. I forgot to add that war is a messy thing, too. Here goes nothing.

Fire streaks across the sky like an impressionist painting—it's really cool to look at, but not right now. Not when there's fists wrapped in tin foil trying to end your life. There's probably a dozen of bullets flying over my head—that just goes to show you that those punks don't have any aim. They fight with weapons. We fight with our mind and souls. See, soldiers like us back in the day? They fought exactly like we did, too. Spiritually and all of that bullshit. I can feel my soul start to stir within my body and I get the want to fight beyond my ability. Let's do this. Balls of flame dance in the sky, living for but a brief moment to display their glamor—their glitter.

Their life starts as soon as it ends, frying those guys in their suits of armor. It must be hotter than hot when they're in those things, skin oozing out of the slits in their chest guards. Fire and metal don't mix and they're about to learn that the hard way. Our powers, really, can be used as a means of quick torture, and all I hear is voices whispering in my head telling me that I want this. That they deserve this. I already knew blood would be spilled tonight.

And I'd be damned if it was mine.

Skin continues to crackle and burble, the people in front of us looking a little less like humans as each second goes by... Sure, the fire is beautiful, but it's deadly. Their flesh sears and they all writhe, dropping their weapons as blood rushes through their perfectly straight and kept up hair... They're being cooked from the inside and you can smell all of their entrails sizzling—their spleens, their gastric acid... Everything. It sounds so nasty, but in a war scenario where us Patriots are lucky to cross anything remotely close to food, that smells like a delicious dinner waiting to happen. Those eleven or so guys are on their knees, their skin dripping from the red, hot muscles of their bones like candy wax. They look like something written out of a movie.

I can't tell if they're pleading for help or not, but the one who shot poor Mattie is reaching out towards me. Words fail to come out of his mouth when he wants them to so much. I walk over to him, noticing how his eyes are still intact. Probably because this time they didn't wear helme—too late. His eye collapses underneath the pressure, viscous fluids sliding down his third degree burned face. There's even little stringy, tiny epithelial muscles hanging out of his puffy, pink eye-sockets like threads. They deserve this.

War is bloody.

The purpose is to kill people.

To watch men's blood spurt from pierced flesh and eyes and limbs. Kinda like what I'm doing now. There's absolutely no glory in it, and I won't lie and tell you war is about losing or winning. It's about animalistic urges to cut and slaughter, wound and burn. The winner is the guy who chose to act first and _not miss_. The loser's exactly what's written on the tin. The loser. And as this dude's friends all melt into various puddles of cooked internal organs and sloppy skin, he gives me one heartfelt glance.

I can't take it anymore.

I don't hate the D.C.U. Never did. These guys are all just puppets. But I can't bare to watch him suffer just because he let Edea and her goons get to him. So I turn towards my willing and waiting men, giving them an honorary Patriot salute. And then, without looking at the guy and ensuring we're all a safe distance from him, I throw a small container of gasolene on him. The explosion is beautiful, but inside I'm dying.

That's my idea of mercy.

Realizing that there will be others soon to check out the disturbance, I give my squad a look of determination, furrowing my eyebrows. I promised myself that nobody would destroy the sanity of this battle with words, and here I was breaking that promise.

"Long live liberty. Long live the Patriots."


End file.
